Imagined Drought

Tuesday, April 22, 2003. 8:37 P.M. 31 Clinton Hill Court. My room. Dark.

Due to a typo, I have learned Clinton can be relettered as Non Clit. Given what we know about Ex-Pres. Clinton’s sexual habits, that seems about right.

In the Art library, the cute librarian smiled at me, and I smiled back. Gotta work on this whole being social thing.

[You don’t know how long it took me to learn how to be able to smile at strangers. Most of the time (and sometimes even now), I will look away or frown at them, unsure how to react. –K]

***

You know, it’s finally happened. I’m starting to reach the limits of my imagination/output. Because of my concerted efforts to apply my imaginative efforts elsewhere, the rest of my writing suffers, as well as daily conversation. Thankfully, this does not affect my work output, as the amount of imagination required to craft technical documentation is on par with that required to walk in a straight line downhill. However, I do find myself at a loss for words more often when speaking to people, or when typing emails, or even in trying to come up with five entries for Writ.

I’d always assumed that my imagination was some bottomless fount, fueled by some inner wellspring of boundless creativity. Given the incessant daydreams that populated my days and kept me semi-amused, I was hoping that I’d forever and ever be living with one foot in the world as is, and the world as it could be. Alas, though it replenish (fort-?)nightly, it is like a rubber band, stretching only so far.

I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing. That strangling feeling I would get after not being able to express myself, whether through speaking or writing, has gone away (good). I’m putting all my eggs into one basket here, essentially (bad). For the most part, these “eggs” are coming out bright and worthwhile (good). I find myself getting bored much, much easier, as there is a lot more downtime inside my head; the voices, my voices, no longer ramble (bad?). Think of a film reel, slowed down to a near stop, until you can see each frame pass by the reflector.

It’s odd, because it also has a calming effect on me. I’m not happy, I’m not sad, I’m just caught in a pseudo-serenity, slightly wistful at times. I’ve entered this state before, brief periods of lucidity whilst writing before, but it’s not been this sustained for this long. If I weren’t so pseudo-serene, it would be child’s play to break bricks with my bare fist. The problem is, I’m not sure I want to break the brick. What did it ever do to me?